


Perfect Imperfection, Chris/Karl, RPS, PG-13/R

by blcwriter



Category: Star Trek RPF
Genre: Body Image, LiveJournal, M/M, Schmoop, fic import
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-12-15
Updated: 2013-12-15
Packaged: 2018-01-04 18:09:49
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,253
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1084101
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/blcwriter/pseuds/blcwriter





	Perfect Imperfection, Chris/Karl, RPS, PG-13/R

For [ this](http://community.livejournal.com/jim_and_bones/247496.html?thread=7287496#t7287496) Daily Captain and Doctor at LJ's comm jim_and_bones. Way schmoopier than I meant it to be, but hey, who doesn't like schmoop at the end of the day?

\---

Chris comes into the reading all serious-like, and because he comes in at the last minute, he grabs the last chair at the end of the table, in between Simon and John. Karl misses Chris sitting right next to him, their knees touching and all that sappy shit under the table. He’s gotten used to the kid and his puppyish ways.

Chris gives his lines-- and everyone else's-- his usual intense attention, makes some suggestions about lines that don't quite work to Bob and J.J., makes notes on his script like always, makes other notes about motivation and character and all the other meta-ish thoughts he's always scribbling away in his notebook-- stuff Karl's always fascinated to read over Chris’ shoulder because Chris thinks every detail of this shit over and over until he's got it nailed while Karl…. Well, it's not like he doesn't take it seriously, but he's been doing this long enough that he just kind of does what feels right in the moment and trusts that if it doesn't, well, he'll figure it out. He's more of a let-it-marinate than a meta-type guy.

But Chris is deserving of some thought today, and not only because he looks extra handsome. Karl hadn't seen him before he'd left the house-- he'd been sleeping in and Chris'd had some early meeting, but the kid's got on a white shirt and blazer over a pair of some grey trousers and shoes-- not his usual white tee and jeans for these readings, so he searches his mind for what meeting it was that Chris had and just comes up-- _blank._ The artful stubble he's got going doesn't detract from the overall dressiness of the outfit—he’s not rumpled one bit, and it makes Karl want to hustle him off for as much rumpling as quickly as possible. Well—except for how _quiet_ Chris is.

At the break, Chris gets up with his phone and hustles out to go make some phone call, just nodding at Karl over the table with a distracted look, practically harried when Karl tries to give him a grin and a jerk of his chin, a silent _c’mon and sit over here now._

Well, that’s not going to stand.

Karl leaves his script and stuff on the table and follows, sees Chris duck into a small room at the end of the hall. He doesn’t bother with stealthy, just follows, because it’s not that much of a secret among all the cast, even if they do keep it mostly subtle.

He opens the door quietly though and walks in on Chris in the midst of making some medical-type appointment, a card in his hand. Since Karl doesn’t believe in personal space, he walks over and plucks it out of his hand. A plastic surgeon—and another one under it, some eye doctor, a surgeon.

The fuck?

Of course, he doesn’t realize he’s said it out loud until Chris glares at him, says “Excuse me,” to the person on the other end of the phone and gives Karl the dirtiest look—and not the good kind.

Chris finishes up with some date and makes a note on his hand with his pen—for all that he’s tidy, the kid’s got weird habits sometimes, and then snaps shut the phone and grabs for the cards.

“Give me those,” he says, flat and commanding.

“Not until you tell me why.”

Because seriously? Unless Chris had worn a blazer and trousers off to the doctor’s, the kid was the healthiest horse on the whole goddamn set.

Chris rolls his eyes and grabs for the cards, but Karl rears back just in time and shoves the cards into his pocket. “No. Why?”

Chris shrugs, but Karl can tell—it’s studied, not a gesture he really means, a part that he _wants_. “Time to do something about the scars they have to keep editing out, or that’s what they tell me. And with hi-def film my contacts and lazy eye are just more and more noticeable.”

Ah.

Well.

That’s easy.

Sort of.

Fuck, it’s hard being young in this town, even for guys. Karl sometimes forgets, since he’s on the far side of young and “weathered” accompanies “handsome” more often than not. Whatever. At least his agent no longer bitches at him about using Oil of Olay and all of that shit.

Fortunately, for as hard as Chris thinks about shit, he’s still a guy at the end of the day.

There’s a couch—leather, old, beat up as all shit, and Karl grabs the lapels of Chris’ blazer, pulls Chris down atop him, sprawls them both over the cushions and hooks a leg over the back of Chris’ lanky ( _not_ chicken) legs as Chris whuffs in surprise at the tackle.

He grabs the back of Chris’ neck, pulls him down and bites his way over Chris’ jaw, over each little pockmark and scar occluded by stubble.

“I … happen to like … those little scars,” Karl gravels out between bites, “and I’m … rather fond … of that … wonky eye,” he adds at he licks his way up to suck Chris’ earlobe, then back down and over to Chris’ mouth, those pouty, perma-chapped lips Chris can never quite stop from lick-lick-licking all the damned time, not that Karl minds. Just reminds him of what he’s got at home, yeah?

Chris grumbles and grunts, but not so much to stop him from grinding down against Karl, his cock growing hard in his grey flannel pants. Nor does it stop him from kissing Karl back, one hand bracing himself so he’s not crushing Karl with his weight, not that he would. Kid eats too much fucking tofu and salad with Zoe and Zach, not enough burgers.

“Um… Chris, Karl?” says a voice at the door, and who knows who it is, because they disappear quickly. Karl could care less, though Chris makes to back off. Karl’s having none of that, thanks, and grabs Chris’ ass, holding him firmly in place for a little more necking before they go back. J.J. said it’d be fifteen before they reconvened, and he had to have noticed Chris was a little extra-serious, right? Karl is just doing his job—hah—keeping the captain in good humor and all.

Finally, though, it’s either push comes to shove and pants come off right here on the couch—which is rude, when everyone’s waiting, or they go back to work.

Reluctantly, Karl pulls away, but not before planting two hands firmly on Chris’ stubbled face. He’ll make him shave clean tomorrow, or maybe do it for Chris himself. It could be kind of sexy. “Your imperfections are perfectly alright with me, eh?” He punctuates the remark with a kiss over the suspect wonky eye—and Chris flinches a bit, but then catches himself and shrugs and smiles like the fool that he knows that he is.

“Sorry.”

“Remind me to tell you about the time I though about getting pec implants when I was twenty nine,” Karl says, then slaps his—god, boyfriend, lucky for him—on the _really fine_ arse—and says, “move it, skinny, time to get back to work before they accuse us of being lovebirds or some shit.”

“God forbid.” Chris’ eyeroll isn’t _quite_ all in the same direction.

Karl’ll never tell.


End file.
